


rule number one

by akanemnida



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Blowjobs, Friends With Benefits, Introspection, M/M, POV Miya Atsumu, Pining, Strangers to Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:53:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26062990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akanemnida/pseuds/akanemnida
Summary: Being friends with benefits with Kiyoomi is surprisingly straightforward, but the problems that come with it are straightforward as well.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 22
Kudos: 655
Collections: SakuAtsu Fics





	rule number one

**Author's Note:**

  * For [playexodus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/playexodus/gifts).



> happy birthday shelly :)

All things considered, Atsumu really doesn’t know what he did in a past life to deserve the feeling of Kiyoomi’s mouth wrapped around his cock. An inky-black gaze trained on his face as he sucks, the inside of Kiyoomi’s mouth too warm and too tight and too much. Kiyoomi is meticulous, like he is with most things; Kiyoomi is surprisingly skilled, like he is with others. The tip of Kiyoomi’s tongue traces a vein on the side of his dick. Atsumu still doesn’t know exactly how he managed to end up in this position, with Kiyoomi on his knees and him pressed against a closet door, boxers down to his ankles.

Atsumu remembers the vague beginnings of this arrangement. It had been—a year now, maybe a little more—since a frazzled Kiyoomi rang the doorbell of his apartment door thirty minutes before midnight. Atsumu opened the door, ready to greet him with a _what’s wrong, Omi-kun_ after seeing his distraught face on his intercom, but Kiyoomi beat him to speaking, sounding out five short words that, in hindsight, would completely upend Atsumu’s life.

“Miya, I have a proposition.”

“For fuck’s sake, Omi-kun, come in first,” Atsumu said, while still observing the lines of distress on the spiker’s face. “’S cold outside, can’t have my hitters getting sick.”

Sakusa toed off his shoes in the _genkan_ before following Atsumu to his two-seater couch. The television was turned on to the late-night news. Atsumu lowered its volume to a barely audible hum.

“What’s up, Omi?”

And without the bravado of his previous statement, Kiyoomi said, “Miya. Let’s be friends with benefits.”

Atsumu had said yes.

It wasn’t a decision that was made without Kiyoomi’s explanations. _I’m stressed,_ he had said, _I can’t focus, Olympic selections are coming, I need—_

“Sex? Sure, but why me?”

“Because you live nearby. Because for some reason, I trust you,” Kiyoomi answered simply.

In his many years of playing volleyball, Atsumu adhered to a set of rules he’d written in his head. _Don’t be a scrub. Don’t slack off during training. Always give your spikers the best sets they can dream of._

And the final rule he added in the middle of high school, when he realized that his libido was causing him to stare at bare torsos for too long in the Inarizaki locker rooms:

_Don’t fuck around with teammates._

The weight of those words—friends (since when?), with benefits, _trust_ —slipping out of Kiyoomi’s unmasked lips was enough to shatter all of Atsumu’s carefully constructed mental rules.

So, Atsumu had said yes.

The problem with Kiyoomi is that before the spiker signed the contract with the Black Jackals, they were only ever teammates _sometimes_ —for five days in December in the three years of their high school lives, for two U-19 tournaments they’d both been called to play in as part of the national team. For most of their teenage lives they lived as strangers on opposite ends of the country, only meeting once in a while as rivals to take each other down from opposite sides of the net. And in the years that followed, in between university commitments and the media whirlwind that came with being part of the professional league, Atsumu and Kiyoomi were very rarely called to take on the world together as teammates.

His relationship with Kiyoomi is nothing like the relationship he had with Kita-san or Aran or Suna, with whom teammates is an always thing, a _forever_ thing, the result of trading his adolescence for three years’ worth of long training days bleeding into convenience store dinner nights. To mess with that balance would have been to mess with 365 days of volleyball, to ruin the fragility of team dynamics with his heart’s desires would be to ruin his own chances at a national-level victory.

Nor was it like his relationship with Meian-san or Wan-san, already established names in the league before he even got his recruitment letter, before he signed contracts that caused volleyball to change from a middle school talent, from a high school fixation, to what would become his life and profession. His Jackals senpai were his idols on some days, mentors on others; more often than not they treated Atsumu like he was their annoying kid brother. When the hero worship inevitably wore off, Atsumu ended up considering his teammates as his extended family in Osaka.

To indulge in the idea that Sakusa Kiyoomi is attractive is harmless in comparison, a small flame he harbored throughout high school as Omi-kun would smirk at him from the other side of the center court’s net; during their time in national training camps when Kiyoomi would wordlessly fist bump him after an excellent set; throughout the early parts of his pro career, when he’d watch collegiate volleyball games on the internet to pass time before he sleeps, and Atsumu had his eyes trained only on the two hundred moving pixels representing the curly-haired man with a bold number 1 printed on both sides of his Waseda maroon shirt.

Sakusa’s volleyball is disgusting in the best ways possible. The long-legged man is a dominant force on the court, the expanse of his back imposing. He is an absolute menace and Atsumu, with only volleyball in his head and in his heart, is drawn. So Atsumu lets himself indulge in fantasies of an often-stranger: what would it be like to dig the strange spin of his spike in set five of an important match (this, he knows, but he thinks about anyway), if Kiyoomi would ever compliment him after three perfect sets in a row (except Atsumu doesn’t _think_ about teammates, so this fantasy gets immediately shelved), if the bend of Sakusa’s wrist would change the way his hands feel around his throat, or even better, around his— 

And then Kiyoomi signs the Black Jackals contract. They become teammates, the _always_ kind. It takes five words and a vague proposition for Atsumu to realize that small flickers can lead to wildfires if left unattended.

Being friends with benefits with Kiyoomi is surprisingly straightforward. Kiyoomi knocked on his door not only with a proposition but with the idea of a verbal contract. Limits, to keep things safe; boundaries, to make sure the arrangement is favorable to both parties.

There were only three rules.

First is simple: there will be no dick sucking on Kiyoomi’s part. It’s what Atsumu had expected considering the man didn’t even eat onigiri, didn’t put food gifts in his mouth. Atsumu didn’t bat an eyelash when Kiyoomi looked at him with a raised eyebrow— _you’re really okay with this?—_ and Atsumu just nodded his assent. _Why wouldn’t I be, Omi-kun?_

(The thing is, when Atsumu asked if he could do the reverse, Kiyoomi did not say no.)

Second is the product of not being able to come up with other rules on the fly: consent is important. This meant that each of them can come up with any other rules and boundaries at any point in their arrangement. Atsumu saw no reason to disagree. Since then, Kiyoomi had flat-out refused a half-drunken blowjob in the bathroom of an _izakaya_ , and Atsumu had fixed Kiyoomi with a glare when the spiker insisted on calling him _Miya_ in bed.

Third: this arrangement isn’t exclusive, and there will be no relationship beyond a sexual one.

Atsumu agreed to the last one without question. A strictly physical relationship is much less likely to disrupt their setter-spiker relationship; just because he had Kiyoomi’s dick in his mouth once or thrice a month wouldn’t mean they would lose their chances at a V.league medal. They are much too professional, too good at their jobs, to engage in something so careless.

Being friends with benefits with Kiyoomi is straightforward, because Kiyoomi himself is direct. Blunt and to the point, sometimes Kiyoomi would come over and pin Atsumu against his front door and plant a bruising kiss on his mouth, long fingers already skimming underneath his thin undershirt without even bothering to move past his _genkan_. Other times, Atsumu would knock thrice on Kiyoomi’s door and sanitize his palms after Kiyoomi finally lets him in.

Sometimes they’d talk before fucking—over tea, over instant coffee, with tomorrow’s weather report droning on as faint background noise—about volleyball strategies or their respective former teammates or the new ramen chain that had opened at the station nearby. Minutes later, they’d both be naked on Kiyoomi’s bed. Atsumu plants butterfly kisses along Kiyoomi’s nape, his brain filing the sound of Kiyoomi’s breathy moans right next to his mental compartments meant for _Omi’s favorite toss_ and _Why Omi won’t touch onigiri with a ten-foot pole_.

Being friends with benefits with Kiyoomi is surprisingly straightforward, but the problems that come with it are straightforward as well.

“Let me suck you off,” were Kiyoomi’s whispered words against the seam of his lips. An impatient Kiyoomi had Atsumu pinned against his closet door, its handle uncomfortable against the jut of his hip. Still, the pain is barely noticeable compared to the hard outline of Kiyoomi’s dick pressing against his boxer-clad thigh. These were words from shelved fantasies, things he didn’t even allow himself to dream about, which is why it took all his self-control to ask,

“Omi-kun, are you sure?”

“I want to,” Kiyoomi sighs, before leaning in for a soft peck on the lips. It’s—tender, for lack of a better word, a stark contrast to the nail marks Kiyoomi had littered all across his nape, his shoulder blades, the small of his back. Tenderness is a problem, as are the Kiyoomi-shaped factoids and memories Atsumu continues to collect in his brainspace.

“The agreement,” Atsumu breathes. “You said—”

“It’s fine,” Kiyoomi reassures, as if it wasn't him who started all this, as if it wasn't him who made the damn rule in the first place. “I want to,” he reiterates.

In high school, Atsumu made an agreement with himself to never fuck around with teammates. It’s a rule that he’d adhered to until Kiyoomi knocked on his door one autumn night. Self-contracts are just formalized figments of his imagination. Without consequence, he can erase and amend those at will.

He remembers talking over the rules with Kiyoomi, laughing obnoxiously when the spiker proposed to bring out ink and paper, settling instead on a firm handshake to seal the deal. It’s a contract that exists in both their memories, and here Kiyoomi is, overstepping the damn boundaries he set by himself.

“So? Yes or no?”

Unable to hold off any longer, Atsumu says yes. Kiyoomi gets on his knees without preamble.

As Kiyoomi works him through his release, Atsumu wonders if he, too, is allowed to conveniently forget specific rules in their contract.

(It doesn't matter. He'd already broken one of them anyway.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, and I'm on twitter as @bottomikun if you're up for a chat!


End file.
